


Mourning the living

by Adrenalineshots



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Sneaky D'Artagnan, Through a Glass Darkly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To grieve for the dead is a comfort that brings peace to a troubled soul. One can only imagine what a soul goes through when it is forced to grieve for the living. Set right after the episode 'Through a glass darkly'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning the living

**Author's Note:**

> I think I managed to read every single coda ever written about this episode, all of them so good!... and still, I felt that there was something more to say. So, here you go, my take on what happened after Constance and D'Artagnan's passionate kiss.
> 
> My deepest gratitude to **Jackfan2** , who took time from her own Musketeers' story to help me with this one. Any remaining mistakes are probably there because I put them there after she corrected the whole thing, as I usually do. 
> 
> For those who read 'Resurrection', the sequel is well on its way (half-way), but I want to be closer to the end before I start posting any of it. If you're curious about it, it is called Reckoning and a tiny insert of it can be found at the end of this one.
> 
> Enjoy!

The sun still shone brightly outside the châtillon when they made their exit. Such a joyous light, filled with so much life and hope that it almost seemed to mock the events that had passed in the previous hours.

It seemed odd that only a few hours had passed since Porthos had stepped foot inside that accursed place. Marmion's deadly tricks and games had left him feeling as if he had aged beyond the passage of time; judging by the slow crawling processional of the survivors toward the awaiting carriage and horses, he wasn't the only one to feel that way.

Failure hung around his shoulders like a mantle of thorns. In the span of such little amount of time, Porthos had failed to protect the King, seen his brother fall to his death, been forced into civilized conversation with Rochefort, accepted help from Milady of all people, seen Aramis return from the dead and helped put an end to Marmion's plans. If not for the constant throb running up and down his arm, a bitter and insistent reminder of his injured shoulder, Porthos would otherwise believe himself woken from some nasty nightmare.

Nightmarish as it had been, proof that it had really happened surrounded him in crimson sharpness. None who had been taken prisoner by Marmion and his men had come away unscathed, even if they had, at least, survived. And those who hadn't… there would be carts sent for them later, to carry their bodies home.

Constance, eager to be reunited with the Queen and the Dauphin, picked up her pace and was already half way up the green hill, heading for the royal carriage. He had seen the angry red marks on the poor woman's wrists and the salty tear tracks upon her cheeks. D'Artagnan's grim features were testimony enough as to the horrors that had transpired after Porthos and Rochefort had been dragged to the cellar.

The King himself looked shaky and unsteady on his feet, his hair in disarray and his eyelashes still wet with fresh tears. It was not a look that any of them wished to see upon their liege, for it meant that they had failed in their most sacred mission. They had been far too trusting of the astronomer's intentions and the Red Guards' efficiency at setting a safe perimeter around the old building, and everyone had paid the price for such a crass oversight.

Pushing aside his personal feelings of failure, Porthos set his eyes upon the one person who had caused him the most worry and grief that day. Aramis.

After Porthos had made his escape from the cellar and met with Athos, the Captain and Milady, only a deeply ingrained sense of duty had stayed his feet into following his comrades deeper into the building instead of outside, to search for Aramis.

While his heart had steadfastly refused to believe that his brother had been killed by the fall -after all, Aramis had grown quite proficient at making his exits through windows rather than doors- his eyes still needed to _see_ that Aramis was alright. His soul needed reassurance against his fears, for his heart knew that _if_ Aramis had survived the fall, he would, in all likelihood, been gravely injured as a result. To imagine his brother outside those walls, his body broken and bleeding... alone.

Porthos shuddered a the image, knowing that there was nothing to be done. As Musketeers, he and the others had no other honorable choice but to place their duty above their broken hearts. They'd had to assure the King' safety first and foremost, before even presuming to search for the marksman.

Meeting Aramis upon the stairs had been a most welcoming surprise, an unexpected relief that had bordered on absolute miracle. Porthos' disbelieving eyes had searched for and catalogued each of the scrapes and signs of grievous injury to his friend, even as he thanked God and the Heavens above for watching out for the fool when he could not.

The smile gracing Aramis' worn features had been infectious and a thing to be celebrated, as had been the realization that he had single handedly ensured the safety of the Queen and the Dauphin.

Now that all was over and they were ready to return to Paris, that smile had yet to disappear. The weariness however, in the lull of the after-battle, had evolved into something else. Something heavier and less forgiving.

As Aramis moved stiffly past him on his way to the carriage and their horses, Porthos did not miss the wince of pain that came with every step or the way his friend shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun.

Aramis had assured them all that he was perfectly fine, his landing having been softened by a well placed canvas awning. It was the landing part that had them all worried and exchanging glances over the marksman's shoulder.

Birds were supposed to have soft landings, just as they were the ones meant to fly gracefully. Men did neither and the evidence that Aramis was not in fact a bird, was clear for all to see.

In the unforgiving light of the sun, the signs of Aramis' brush with death were all too conspicuous. It showed in the gleamy wetness present in the damp curls, plastered against the Musketeer's head, which, inside the gloomy building, could have been easy mistaken as a mere result of the exertion of battle. Outside, however, the reddish quality of the moisture was impossible to mistake for anything else other than blood.

It showed in the limping, as the Musketeer walked slowly and carefully, avoiding the placement of too much weight on his right leg.

And the way he kept his right arm close to his body, either to protect the limb itself or the ribs underneath.

"You alright there?" Porthos asked, following his friend up the hill. Sweat was already doting Aramis' pale face and he still had a long way up to go. "Maybe it's best if I just bring your horse down instead, yeah?"

Aramis stopped under the guise of glaring at Porthos, even though the larger man could see right through the ruse and glimpse at the real motive. He was trying to catch his breath. Ribs then, not arm.

"I'm fine, Porthos," Aramis pointed out, his hand coming up to swipe at the sweat banding around his eyes. "Perfectly capable of reaching my own mount, thank you."

Porthos resisted the urge to growl. One of these days, he would have to explained to his overly educated friend, exactly what the word _'fine'_ meant in French. And in Spanish. Probably Latin as well, just to make sure.

~§~

Athos watched silently as Aramis led his horse to a nearby rock, clearly intending to use it as a mounting step. He exchange a look with Porthos and shook his head. It was still too soon.

If there was one thing that they had both learned early on about Aramis, was that the man was too damn prideful about his own weaknesses and would steadfastly refuse any kind of aid until he was absolutely ready to take it.

To offer it any sooner meant dealing with a sulking Aramis and, more of often than not, picking him off the floor after he lost his senses, as he would stubbornly refuse to admit defeat and accept their care until he was close to his last breath.

It was one of the most infuriating flaws the man possessed, but Athos and Porthos had learned to live with it. D'Artagnan would to, in time.

"I'll ride ahead, with the King," Treville offered, his eyes following Athos' gaze. "Stay with him... I'll have the physician ready for your arrival."

Athos shook his head again. As far as he could see, all of Aramis' wounds were superficial and relatively easy to be dealt with. It was just the sheer number of ailments and the effort of keeping up appearances that was working to drag the, otherwise resilient man, down. "There is no need," he explained to the Captain. "We'll take care of him, don't worry."

Throwing another look in Aramis' direction, the older man nodded. He too was well familiarized with Aramis' peculiarities, as with all of his men. "Very well," he agreed, spurring his horse forward, to follow the royal carriage.

"If we're all quite ready?" Athos asked, looking around at the remaining group. D'Artagnan finally having joined them, his face splintered in half by the smile that had lingered long after Constance's kiss, was already mounting his horse. Aramis, sitting astride his, looked like a man without a care in the world, his face displaying a smile to rival D'Artagnan's and Porthos... was scowling, looking at the two younger men like he wanted to rip their heads off.

"Off we go, then," Athos said, getting on his horse in one well-practiced motion and steering him towards the road home.

He kept their pace steady and slow. It was just the four of them now, Milady and the rest having followed Treville and the King. It would take them longer to reach Paris like that, but it had the advantage of allowing them to keep a closer eye on Aramis and, he admitted if only to himself, it would help them keep a good distance away from the royal carriage.

The situation between Aramis and the Queen was a tricky one, at best of times. It could prove to be an impossible one with him impaired by injury and the Queen's defenses weaker by the fright and sheer horror of the situation that they had just lived through.

The last time the two of them had been in a life and death situation, high treason and baby had been the result. Athos shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if they were left to their own devices again under such circumstances yet again. Aramis was a grown man and a responsible one at that, but, the fact remained that he was _Aramis_.

Case in point, was the fact that Aramis still had that annoying smile on his face. If it weren't for the accompanying paleness and bruises, Athos would have felt tempted to wipe that expression off his countenance with a well placed punch. Unable to stop his wandering mind, Athos caught himself going through the possibilities of the number of things that could have possibly happened to bring such unwavering happiness to his battered friend. Aramis enjoyed a little violence in his life, certainly, but he did not enjoyed it to such extent.

All of his options kept returning to either the Queen or the Dauphin.

Unfortunately, the subject matter was not one that he could approach in the presence of their other two companions. Later, once they were alone, he would try and find out just how much closer to the noose his neck had become without risking Porthos and D'Artagnan's lives.

"Next time there's a bloody eclipse," Porthos let out after a while, "remind me to just stay home and watch it from my bed. Asleep." The gentle banter he and Aramis had kept up, at the expense of D'Artagnan's love life, had run its course and soon dried out after a few miles. In its wake, all that remained were the soft sound of hooves on the loose soil and those had quickly turned oppressive in the otherwise quiet woods outside Paris.

"No need to worry on that account," Athos pointed out. "It will probably be years until the next one and, if we're still around, I'm ready to go to any lengths necessary to insure that the pleasure of accompanying the King falls onto others," he said, a hint of sarcasm and guilt in his voice.

He hadn't truly been around for this one, running away like a skulking infant to avoid facing Milady's presence and her flirting with the King. Now that all was over, Athos couldn't help but wonder if his presence would've altered any of the events that had transpired.

He was pragmatic enough to admit that the outcome would have probably been the same with or without his presence; Aramis would have still opened his mouth to argue in favor of the women and his son, unknowingly antagonizing the unstable Marmion and earning himself a dramatic exit through the window; Milady would have still risked her life to go for help and keep her favor with the King and Athos... had he been there, he realized, he would have probably risked his life alongside hers, taking his chances with the toss of a coin rather than risking Treville not believing her words and ignoring Milady's warnings.

"We risk still being here for the next one," D'Artagnan voiced, a slight note of annoyance in his tone, "if we keep up at this pace."

Athos raised an eyebrow, giving the young man a look. Even though Aramis had yet to a word in complaint, it was all too clear for everyone to see that he was beginning to struggle in his attempts to keep himself steady in the saddle. Sweat had replaced all traces of color in his face and his lips were nothing but a thin pale line in between dark facial hair. The Musketeer's upper body had started to lean towards the horse's mane, hands gripping the reins far too tightly and his feet pressed against the animal's belly spoke highly of his poor attempt to keep his balance.

If they were to move any faster now, Aramis would certainly fall down.

Ignoring Athos' look, D'Artagnan kicked his horse, spurring him at a slow gallop. Up ahead on the road, they could see a faint cloud of dust, signaling the shorting distance to the royal carriage.

Just as Athos was about to call out D'Artagnan on his foolishness, the young man stopped and cursed, jumping off his horse in a fluid movement.

"Wha' now?" Porthos called out, the annoyance back on his voice. He pulled his horse to a stop, dividing his attention between a rapidly fading Aramis and D'Artagnan. "Somethin's wrong?"

"My horse's shoe," the young man explained, his voice muffled as he bent down to look at the animal's front left leg. "I think it's come loose in the gravel," he announced, gently dropping the horse's leg and patting him on the torso before looking back at them. "I'm afraid he'll grow lame if I keep on riding him like this."

Athos tilted his head, an inkling of a smile gracing his lips. From his position, he could see well enough that there was nothing wrong with the horse's shoe. "What do you propose then?" he asked. Impartial. Uncaring. Waiting.

D'Artagnan made a show of running his hand through his hair, looking at each of them in turn, as if weighing his options. "I guess I could walk back, although that would take me almost a full day. Or… maybe I could ride with one of you?"

"Take your pick then," Porthos said, the smirk on his face letting Athos know that he too was on to D'Artagnan's scheming. "Just... try not to think too much about lovely Constance while you ride with one of us, yeah?" He added with an amused snigger.

D'Artagnan ignored his jib as, predictably, he picked Aramis' horse as his ride. "Do you mind?" He asked the injured man.

Aramis just rolled his eyes, grabbing the horse's mane as he dragged himself forward on the saddle, making room for the younger man. "You all think you're so witty and subtle," he whispered, the words lacking any venom as his lips contorted into a faint smile. "In case you were wondering, you're really _not_ , you know?"

~§~

D'Artagnan climbed on to Aramis' stallion with ease, his own horse's reins held loosely in his hand. He would have laughed at Aramis' words, if he hadn't been close enough to the man to feel the fine tremors running through his body. His friend was utterly exhausted, and D'Artagnan couldn't feel the slightest bit guilty for the ruse he had perpetrated in order to give the Musketeer some much needed assistance.

Since he had joined their group, D'Artagnan could not think of an occasion when Aramis had been the one sporting an injury. Quite the opposite, he was always the one giving assistance and caring for their wounds. Or taking care of their well being, in general.

The man seemed to take all of their injuries as personal failures, working tirelessly to make sure they mended well and swiftly.

It was a favor that none of them wished to return, for the last thing they wanted to see was Aramis wounded, but a favor that they now had the opportunity to repay, if only the stubborn man would allow them. Which was why Porthos' and Athos' reactions and handling of the situation had baffled him at first.

"I do believe you were quite right," Athos smooth voice broke the silence. He was talking to D'Artagnan but his attention was entirely on the man in front of him. "I think it's time we quicken our pace."

D'Artagnan could only nod, his arms circling around Aramis' waist to grab hold of the reins in his hands. Not bothering to conceal his hurt any longer, the older man just sagged in relief, allowing the Gascon control while he draped one arm around his stomach, trusting the young man to keep him on top of the horse. Aramis free hand curled against the horse's black mane, more to reassure the animal than for balance.

"He doesn't care much for other people on his back," Aramis explained. "Not unless they're charming and of female persuasion," he added with a smirk.

D'Artagnan did laughed then, unable to hold it back even as he spurred the animal into a gallop. "I had been meaning to ask about that," he teased, remembering all of the women he had seen riding alongside his gallant friend. It seemed that, whenever they had a beautiful woman in their midst, she would always find herself astride of Aramis' saddle. "My charm must be enough, for it seems like your horse is willing to suffer my non-female presence with some grace," he said after a while, relieved to see that the animal was, indeed, behaving admirably under strange hands. Not all horses were so forgiving, specially stallions. "Maybe it is his rider and not the horse who prefers softer company," D'Artagnan added with a smirk.

The smirk fell from his lips when Aramis failed to reply to his dig. "Aramis?" D'Artagnan called out, his hands gripping tighter on the reins, fearing any extra movement on his part would unseat them. All he could see was the back of the Musketeer's head, blood covered curls falling down as it tilted towards Aramis' chest. "Athos! Porthos!" D'Artagnan called out, trying to keep the growing fear from his voice.

He had no free hands to access his friend's condition and the powerlessness was grating on his nerves. The responsibility was just too big. Even though he could feel Aramis' heart, hammering across his back and echoing against his chest, and the slight rise and fall of his lungs as they pressed against his arms, the young man needed someone else to reassure him that Aramis had not just died in his arms.

Porthos reached them first, his horse never truly far away from the one carrying Aramis. Stopping as close as he could get, Porthos used his teeth to pull one glove off and pressed his fingers to Aramis' neck. He nodded reassuringly as his grip changed from neck to cheek. The big man's touch was impossibly tender as he pressed his palm to the unconscious man's face and arranged his head to press against D'Artagnan's chest instead of hanging down. "Took'im long enough," he said, his voice as gentle as his touch. "Stubborn bastard."

Athos, flanking them from the other side, added his hand to the mix, fingers brushing against Aramis' forehead. "No fever," he announced, his hand lingering as the brushed Aramis' hair away from the cuts on his face. "We should get him home and get those cleaned up, before they become infected," he simply said, before moving his horse away and resuming their path.

It was the first time that D'Artagnan had seen Aramis wounded but it wasn't, he realized then, the first time he had seen the others behaving like they were now. Touching, feeling the warm skin, reassuring themselves that the other man was still with them.

It was after Marsac's death, D'Artagnan remembered, that he had witnessed it for the first time. Porthos and Athos had made sure that Aramis' cup was never empty when they had dragged him to the tavern that night. The result that they had been aiming for had been quickly achieved, for Aramis wasn't as much of a drinker as either men and was soon properly drunk and well on his way to oblivion.

The three of them had carried Aramis to his quarters. While D'Artagnan was readying himself to leave the older man to his privacy, he realized that the other two were, in fact settling in to spend the night. Porthos had neatly inserted himself at the head of Aramis' bed, pulling the sleeping man's head towards his shoulder, and Athos, aloof and distant Athos, had gently removed Aramis' boots before settling himself at the end of the bed, his back against the wall and the sleeping man's legs draped over his. In between them, they had effectively and effortlessly arranged their ailing brother so that he was sleeping in a warming lap in between the two of them. Odd as the situation might have seemed amidst grown men, the only thing that D'Artagnan had wondered at the time was if his presence in their midst would be welcomed.

Athos' raised arm had answered that question quickly enough, as he invited D'Artagnan to take a place beside him on the bed and offered his shoulder as a pillow just as Porthos had done for Aramis.

None of them had spoken much on that night, and D'Artagnan had wisely made no comments about the number of times Aramis' sleep had been disturbed by pained gasps and whimpering sobs as he was haunted by nightmare after nightmare. When morning finally arrived, it found the four Musketeers still stacked across the bed, each having rested less than the other. The feeling of security and belonging, however, had been undeniable. It had lingered in the air around them, like soft, warm light.

Aramis had merely stared at each of them, a silent nod the only thanks that was needed between brothers. From his lack of surprise at finding himself cuddled by the other men, D'Artagnan could easily guess that that was not the first time such a thing had happened.

Aramis seemed to need the touch of others whenever he was hurt or in pain. And the others, D'Artagnan realized, needed the contact just as badly, to make sure that he was alright.

He felt privileged beyond words that the others had allowed him, this one time, to be the one protecting Aramis until they arrived at the garrison. In a way, it felt to him like a rite of passage.

~§~

Aramis woke to the clap clap beating of hoofs over cobblestone, a sound as familiar to him as his own voice.

There was a warm body behind his back and the well-known feeling of his horse's back between his thighs.

He opened his eyes to be greeted by the familiar buildings of the street outside the garrison, the smell of slowly rotting fruit, abandoned on the ground, wafting from the market place. The sun was setting, light diminishing this time in a normal fashion, rather than due to an eclipse.

"You're awake."

D'Artagnan's voice rumbled from the chest at his back, startling Aramis. He pushed forward, intent on straightening on his saddle, only to hiss as hot white pain exploded across his lower back and forced him to remain in his present position. "Don't hold it against me," Aramis whispered as he closed his eyes again, searching for the comfort that had been in his grasp not so long ago, before he had foolishly tried to move. "You're doing marvelously as a human bed," he added with a smirk.

Truth was, a bed -a real bed- was the only thing that Aramis wanted at the moment. His whole body ached, like he had been thrown inside a flour grinder stone... or gone a couple of rounds with Porthos' fists.

"Come on, ya big lump," Porthos voice sounded from nearby. "Let's get you to a proper bed, shall we?" he said, echoing Aramis' wishes without realizing it.

Aramis opened his eyes once more, just in time to see the world swirling and tilting around him as strong hands grabbed him by the middle and pulled him from his horse. The squeaky sound that escaped his lips was most undignifying. "A little warning next time," he complained, out of breath, pushing away from the larger man's smirking face.

His legs, muscles stiff from the ride and climbing up the walls of the old châtillon, threatened to turn into wet clay and for a second there, Aramis was sure that he was going to fall on his face, making a fool of himself for the whole garrison to see.

"We've got you," Athos whispered by his side, taking one of his arms almost at the same time as Porthos took the other. "Bring up his sewing kit, if you'd be so kind," he called back to D'Artagnan, already making his way upstairs.

Aramis decided that it was best to concentrate on the intrinsic workings of his own feet rather than the notion of being all but carried to his rooms by his friends. How they ever managed to maneuver three full grown men across the narrow steps was a matter that eluded him completely.

By the time Aramis had manage to get his bearings about, he found himself sitting on his own bed, his shirt nowhere to be found and a bowl of clear water at his feet, white steam rising up to his face.

"You with us?" Athos voice wandered from somewhere on his left. "We need to rinse off your hair... you're covered in glass from head to toe."

He had carried most of that window on his clothing, that much was plain to see. Aramis looked at the floor surrounding the water bucket, the wood sparkling with tiny shards of broken glass as candle light hit them. It was pretty, like a starry night. "I see stars."

"I bet you do, mate," Porthos voice arrived from the other side, concerned branding his words. "Just sit still and let us handle this, yeah?"

Athos and Porthos sat by his side, like guardian angels, each holding one shoulder to stop him from toppling forward, but it was D'Artagnan's boots that Aramis could see in front of him, past the bucket, crushing the pieces of glass against the floor. He would never be able to take them out now.

"Just let me know if this hurts," the young man said, as he gently scooped a bowl of water and poured it down Aramis' bent head. The hot water stung against the cuts on his scalp, but Aramis bit his lip to stop himself from making any sound. If he started, he might not be able to stop.

Aramis forced his eyes opened instead, the darkness behind his lids becoming too disorienting to withstand. D'Artagnan poured another bowl, red water running down Aramis' hair until it join the rest in the bucket.

"There's one here that will require needlework," Athos commented casually. "I can see some glass still inside."

Aramis grunted. The words were not exactly meant for him and arguing against it would be pointless. Besides, he was too distracted to mind.

Aramis had held his son that day. Had carried him to safety.

Like the moon eclipsing the sun, that sole event had the power to eclipse everything else in his mind. He had no care for the fact that death had come too close for comfort on that day, or that his body ached mercilessly and his skin felt like it was on fire from the multiple cuts.

That tiny, fragile baby had been his to protect on that day, and he had not failed in doing that. He and Anne had held their son between them, like a normal family would, protected and safe in their arms and, for a few seconds, Aramis had been able to forget everything else and just be a man holding his son. A father, for the briefest of times.

A stabbing pain at the back of his head pulled Aramis from his wandering thoughts, the uncanny feeling of something sliding out of his flesh bringing goosebumps to his skin. "Au," he let out, more in complaint than in pain.

"Don't whine," Athos chided. "It's unbecoming."

The room felt larger, Aramis realized. Emptier. "The others?"

Athos pulled out one more piece of glass from Aramis' head, the tiny shard plinking as it hit the bowl on top of the bed. "Fetching clean water, bandages and food," the older Musketeer supplied. "Care to tell me what happened, now that we have a moment to ourselves?"

Aramis sighed, resisting the urge to pull at his hair. Presently, he was sure the action would probably result in his whole scalp coming loose.

He should have known that Athos would not let the day's events pass without going through them with a fine comb. "Nothing happened, mon ami," he reassured the other man. "Marguerite was with the Queen at all times."

"That is what I'm afraid of," Athos confessed, setting the pair of tweezers on the bowl and turning to face his friend. "You did nothing to arouse her suspicious?"

Aramis closed his eyes, forcing himself to relive those precious moments without the glowing warm filter of holding his son and gazing upon Anne. His mind had been troubled beyond sense at the time, his heart clenched in fear for the lives of two of the most precious people to him on this earth. He could barely remember waking on that awning, vicious crows mistaking him for a corpse already. He had no true recollection of climbing those walls, only the sense that he was outside the building and needed, more than air itself, to be inside and protect those he loved.

What Aramis could recall in perfect detail, was opening that door and finding Anne and the baby safe and sound. His heart had stopped beating for a moment and he had felt his knees giving away as he landed in a barely controlled heap at the Queen's feet.

Even if his actions had been fueled by love rather than devotion to the Crown and Country, surely the end result would have been the same? "No, I don't think so..."

Athos raised an eyebrow to him, his fingers brushing against Aramis' face, coaxing the younger man to look up at him. "You sure about that?" he pressed, his voice soft enough to hold no demands. "I do wish to be prepared if the soldiers come knocking on your door. If we're to run for our lives, you, my friend..." he added with a smirk, looking at Aramis' sock covered feet, "... you have no boots."

Aramis chuckled, wincing as the motion rattled his aching head. The pain, however, was not enough to wipe the smile from his face. "I held him" he whispered, his eyes locking with Athos', making no effort to conceal the emotion there. "In my arms... I could feel his tiny heart, beating against mine."

~§~

Athos sighed, his hand moving from Aramis' face to the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together. "I'm happy for you, mon ami, I truly am," he started, glad that the position they were in meant that he could easily avoid Aramis' gaze. He could not bare to see the disappointment in his brother's eyes as he uttered the next words. "But you must stop thinking of that child as yours... he is the Dauphin and your only thoughts must be towards his protection and his future as King of France," Athos pushed on, relentlessly.

With each of his words, he could feel Aramis flinch and recoil, but he forced himself to go on, to brand the notion into his friend's heart with a hot iron, while there was still a chance. "What happened today must never happen again. You cannot allow yourself to forget one very important fact... Aramis, you have no son."

The silence that followed was heavier and more hurtful than anything Aramis could have said.

Athos stepped away, unsure if his presence was at all wanted after the bluntness of his words. Aramis' left hand, palm sliced open and still sluggishly bleeding, blindly grabbed on to his arm, stopping him from widening the distance between them. "Stay," he simply whispered, his eyes fixed on the wooden floor, the single word sounding wet and pained.

Athos found himself caught in the sight of that hand, carelessly smearing blood across his white shirt. It seemed all too fitting, that he should be wearing the signs of the wound he had just inflicted on his brother.

Aramis made no other sound as they waited for the others, his head bent down and his hands carded through his hair. Only the hand that Athos kept on his back allowed him to know that his friend was crying, fine tremors rocking the abused muscles.

Despite being the most sensible of their group, Aramis wasn't one to openly cry frequently. He had spent too many years soldiering to allow himself to be controlled by his emotions in such a manner. Still, he felt, and Athos knew that Aramis felt with all of his heart, deeper than he gave himself credit for.

Athos imagined that a sixteen year old Aramis had cried his heart out when he had learned of the loss of his child and Isabelle's disappearance. He could barely imagine how much it would have hurt to hear his words just now, urging Aramis to let go of yet another child.

It was for the best, Athos knew as much. But the best and what was right were sometimes more crippling than the alternative, a fact that life seemed eager to remind him of, over and over again.

And still, Athos knew that he could not allow his friend the grieving he was entitled to. "The others will return shortly," he reminded. It would not do for Porthos and D'Artagnan to return and find Aramis in such despair. They would worry and, what was worse, they would ask questions.

As if on cue, the door opened, letting the cold air of the night in and, with it, their missing companions.

~§~

By the time they were finished with cleaning and stitching all of Aramis' cuts and gashes and bandaging his bruised ribs and back, the marksman was all but asleep in their arms, exhaustion finally extracting its price.

Porthos, being the strongest of the three, had been delegated with the mission of keeping their friend upright and still as they worked. He had expected that to involve some struggling on Aramis' part, some degree of refusal in being in the same place until they finished properly. The man, however, was too pliable and quiet in his arms, a picture of perfect submission. Exhaustion, Athos had explained.

Horse shit, Porthos called it.

When he and D'Artagnan had returned to the room, Porthos had felt his heart clutch without really understanding why. It was less than a gut feeling, merely a faint impression left in the air, like an expensive perfume, lingering long after its owner had passed. Only, it wasn't as pleasant as perfume, far from it.

At first sight, nothing had changed. Aramis was still seated on his bed, with Athos by his side, the older man's hands empty and bloodied, having finished fishing all the pieces of glass from the marksman's head and neck. The stiffness in their posture, however, seemed out of place between two friends who had just survived impossible odds and that should be celebrating the fact that Aramis was alive.

D'Artagnan seemed to have sensed the same. Standing by his side as they had entered, the lad's hands fidgeted with the bottle of wine they had brought back to celebrate, all but hiding it behind his back in embarrassment.

The bottle had still served its purpose, but it hadn't tasted of celebration at all. Not when Athos grabbed on to it like a drowning man and certainly not in the face of the lingering wetness in Aramis' eyes when he had finally looked up from the floor to acknowledge their presence.

Porthos knew that there was something between those two, something that neither of them wanted him or D'Artagnan to know. They thought that they were being all smart and inconspicuous about it, but Porthos knew them both better than that.

Aramis had lost the smile that had been plastered to his face most of the day and, no matter what he claimed, his sour mood wasn't because he was in pain or felt sick. Mainly because, in pain and sick were two things that Aramis never admitted to feeling, ever. Whatever it was, it was worse than physical pain. Deeper and darker.

And Athos, being the responsible and caring leader that he was, had offered some hard advice to Aramis while they were gone. Hard enough to shatter the other man's happiness.

Had it been anyone else, Porthos would have grabbed Athos by his tongue and dragged him through the streets until he confessed what he had said to Aramis to cause him such pain. But, knowing the older man as well as Porthos did, he knew that, whatever had passed, Athos had done what was necessary to keep Aramis safe, no matter the cost.

Porthos had no use for the small details. He got the grander picture just fine. This particular tree was certainly in pain now, but he could see that steps had been taken to salvage the forest.

"Sleep... we ain't going anywhere," he reassured the younger man as someone blew the last of the candles out and plunged the room into darkness. Porthos shifted Aramis to lie on his side, his back too bruised to allow him any real rest, and pulled the covers up. Underneath, he could feel Aramis' body relaxing and melting with the sheets.

Yeah... the forest would be just fine.

_Bien._

_Bueno._

_Bonum._

**Author's Note:**

>  **Reckoning** preview
> 
> The cell was dark and moist, water dripping from the ceiling as if the Seine itself ran above those walls and was gently asking to come inside.
> 
> The man sat against the stone wall, his eyes fixed on the first rays of sun, shyly peeking from between the iron bars of the lonely window.
> 
> It had been months since he has last felt the cool touch of the wind or the warmth of the sun against his skin. Still, he knew that the odds of him stepping outside other than to meet the noose, were close to none.
> 
> The sound of footsteps, echoing down the hall, sent all of his rat companions scattering away for the closest hole on the wall.
> 
> No one had come to ask him any questions. No one had cared for what he had to say, but still the man had held on to the knowledge that, if he were to open his mouth and whisper the right words into the proper ears, he might still be saved.
> 
> The figure that stopped outside his cell door was imposing in his spotless garbs, perfectly conscious of the power he wielded. He was not, however, the right ears to whisper words to. He was not there to save him.


End file.
